Cranes
by Kal Ancalas
Summary: They say if you fold a thousand paper cranes, your most heartfelt wish will come true. [Revolt of the Archers oneshot. Talescentric. Angsty, some spoilers.] Reposted with a new author's note at the end.


**Cranes**

A Revolt of the Archers-based Short Story by Kal Ancalas

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"_They say if you fold a thousand paper cranes, your most heartfelt wish will come true."_

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_Warning: If you've never read the story Revolt of the Archers before, this story won't make a subatomic particle's worth of sense to you. Some spoilers abound. _

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Author's Note: Okay, I was feeling rather bummed out (school starts tomorrow since I wasted an entire week in Japan- not that I'm complaining, but staring at Buddhist temples day after day tends to get boring after a while), and in addition, I left my _Lord of the Flies _book in the airplane's seat pocket on the trip home and forgot to get it out. I guess at least the eternal question "What happens to evil, sadistic English teachers when they get pissed off?" will be answered.

So, I wrote this. It's not hard to see where I got the inspiration from this shortfic, coming back from Japan and all, but I assure you it has nothing to do with atom bombs. It does, however, have a kind of sad element to it which I fear I may have overplayed as "emowangstteartear", but maybe that's just my sedated brain talking. I've never used so many dashes in a chapter before and it might be a little annoying, but nothing else could convey the feeling that I was trying to show as well as these fragmented thoughts. In addition, I've never written in 2nd person before and I was only inspired to do so by reading several excellent one-shots while browsing. I hope I haven't screwed up too much.

Although I horribly suck, suck, _**suck**_ at writing romance, I tried to put some RysdalexNatalia bits in here…the two really do seem nice as a couple (although I don't stress that in Revolt, save for an occasional line or scene). Hopefully I didn't make it too sappy for your tastes.

From now on, FYI, I will be writing review replies to each chapter's reviews at the beginning of each chapter, instead of waiting for a huge crack chapter to lump them all in. It might be against FF Law, but I need to get those replies out of my system. Don't report me, or a whole bunch of rabid fans will be VERY pissed at you.

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"_This chapter was really deep! Plot intricacies and stuff happening, and I'm finding that your plot twists are getting more surprising now TT_

_I wouldn't have guessed that Arklanser's past was like that...the way you described it was really detailed and made me feel pity for her_

_And the last section about Grace was heart wrenching. It's very emotional, like the rest of your writing. I find that your battle scenes are enjoyable to read (more so than some other fanfics I've read) and that you put a lot of effort into writing this._

_This is amazing for someone who's just been on a trip to Japan. I can't write something like this when I come back from SCHOOL, let alone another country_

_Keep up the good work! (I've gotten two of my friends hooked to this xD)"_

Thanks. I tried to make her past as dramatic as I could, but that was kind of hard when I was running on four hours of sleep and a bottle of improperly-stored Coca-Cola. Ditto for the end scene with Grace, too- I wanted to make it more angsty, but it didn't quite have the "heart-wrenching" effect I was looking for- more like heart-poking. I hope it was good enough to satisfy you, at least.

-Kal

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"_Hmm... Arklanser's past also seems to be a bit like Anna's, 'cept she didn't turn to a blue/green monster.  
Great chapter, and you should make one of Luke's attacks called Radiant Howl. p XD"_

…Wow, now that you mention it, it does, sort of…even more so than Presea.

And by the way, Sinclaire is only a minor character intended for comic relief, so I don't really have much planned for him in the future…yet.

-Kal

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"_Yes! Grace is back on the good guy's sides (kind of). I feel so sorry for her suffering. ;;"_

To clarify, Grace is not on the "good side", nor is she on the "bad side". She experienced a slight arcane lapse from being hit by Ascion, in which Gault's control over her faltered slightly, thus making for the rather strange scene at the end of the chapter.

If you felt sorry for her, then good; that's what I was hoping for.

-Kal

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"_A great chapter, as always. Really nice fight scene between Ryden, Ark, and Melchior. You're using the moves I supplied very well. Interesting take on Delinia's past, and it's good to see that Grace has finally come to her senses. Hope she gets redeemed by Phoenix in the next chapter._

_By the way, have you played C&C 3: Tiberium Wars yet? I'm telling you, that game is THE BOMB, you absolutely have to play it! I've been affected so much that I'm even thinking of forming the GDI out of the Wise Men's forces and including the Ion Cannon as a combo-attack move involving all the members of the Dead Six! Whoa, I'm starting to rant here, but anyway, this was a really great chapter. Hope to see more soon!"_

"Redeemed"? I think I sorta get the gist of what you're talking about…but then, I'd have to change the rating of the story from T to M, and besides, it might be a little difficult to do that sort of thing with a disembodied spirit- (gets hit by a rabid flying monkey)

And yes, I have heard about Command and Conquer 3: Tiberium Wars. From a friend, actually, who is more or less addicted to it. It gets to the point on some days where I feel like pouring molten Tiberium up his arse and transforming him into a horribly mutated being- which might actually be an improvement, if you are unfortunate enough to have known him. Okay, I really should stop ranting too, but thanks for your review, as usual.

-Kal

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"_I haven't been reading this story for a while. But it was great company after twisting my stupid ankle today. My name's laura, but i sure don't have any archer brother. My mom's called grace, she ain't no mage. My life would be boring to the core if not for imagination. Your stories make me feel better!"_

Ouch…You twisted your ankle? That's gotta hurt. Then again, I've tripped down flights of stairs, banged my head on countless cabinet doors, whacked myself in the knee while doing a smash serve, pulled leg muscles while stretching, and got impaled in the heel by evil gigantic splinters, so I wouldn't know.

It's always a nice feeling to know that at least one person benefited from my getting virtually no sleep for a week.

-Kal

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"_O.o In this chapter, I can see a bit of Eragon, ToS, and... something. I forgot. Seems like Gault is getting bored. I would too, if i was surrounded by dead spirits and monsters. O.o Grace reminds me of this thing from Fire Emblem... a morph. some sort of resemblance... all in all, it was a great chapter, but that might be because of a lack of updating. (that does not mean anything) . just in case... picks up a plasma rifle"_

If I was surrounded by dead spirits and monsters, I'd start by putting down the controller and turning off Resident Evil.

And I've never played Fire Emblem (gets mauled by rabid mob), but I think I get the general idea of what you're talking about.

(Picks up plasma bazooka (I don't know if these exist, but if they don't, tough crap. I just created one with my SUPER HOLY-FRIGGIN' AUTHOR POWERS! Okay, I'll shut up now.))

-Kal

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"_A few comments on the chapter:  
- Poor Grace.  
- Poor Delinia. And poor Sinclaire, too.  
- Ark and Ascion are total badasses.  
- Anyone who does any fighting is pretty much badass. I could learn a lot from the way you handle fight sequences.  
- I'm starting to grow attached to the way you switch focus in the chapters. It's easier for me to understand what's going on. Whether or not that's because you changed your style or because I got used to it, I'm not sure.  
- "Gault is NOT gay for Phoenix." Heh. Hee hee. Out of context, that sounds really funny._

_I truly enjoy your work - it seriously kept me from focusing in classes today. Please continue to write as well as you do, if not better._

_- Resda"_

A few comments on the review:

-Yeah, I know. Being killed, revived and enslaved by a madman, killing a hell of a lot of people, and being forced to fight against your beloved kinda sucks.

-Being infested with a parasitic crystal that's slowly eating your insides and repressing your emotions sucks too. And ditto if you're the guy who likes that person.

-Ascion is the badass. Ark is just some random black-haired wannabe with a big axe.

-I'm flattered, but I found it rather difficult to write a fight sequence at four in the morning with a huge migraine. Thankfully, at least one person enjoyed it.

-Take _that, _"inconsistent plot" bastards!

-Heh, now that you mention it, it kinda does. I'm not sure just WHY I put that at the end, but it was something that just had to be gotten off my chest.

-Kal

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"_Nice chapter, you update pretty quickly and the chapters are really long. And Sanctuary summons a golden spiritual hammer and sends a huge shockwave, not with a sword. Also, it wouldn't hurt for you to describe. Also, you should let Ascion Blade learn Bahamut(stronger and larger version of Summon Dragon, it attacks on its own) and Angel Ray (stronger version of Holy Arrow).  
Heres a link for the 4th job skills (scroll all the way down)."_

Can't agree with you on the quick updates, but I guess almost 200,000 words (three times longer than Flames of the Uprising, second longest story on Maple so far- whoops, there goes my ego.) does speak a lot.

Yes, I am aware that Sanctuary is a wide-range attack that uses a hammer, but they call it fan _fiction _for a reason. If all I stuck to were the crappy attacks in Maple, the battle scenes would go nowhere; that's why I have to steal things from Symphonia, Abyss, Baten Kaitos, and- (Gets whacked by a flying piece of Tiberium). Besides, hammers look crappy.

And Ascion is not a Bishop yet. Wishful thinking, though.

By the way, a note to all: When you post links in your reviews, post them with spaces ( l i k e t h i s ) so that FF's anti-advert script doesn't go ebil on you.

-Kal

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Um…Yeah. Happy Easter, everyone. Hopefully you didn't eat a whole bag of candy eggs like some certain authors did and get horrible indigestion and be forced to write a quick slap-dash emowangst fic to serve as relief.

Oh yeah, and I have school tomorrow, so it would REALLY make me feel a hell of a lot better if you reviewed.

-Kal, 4.9.07

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The night started like any other as the moon rose above the city of Henesys, casting its silver glow on the town below. The moon's rays fell on the small cottage just a few meters short from the city limits, casting an almost welcome glow on the little house. The windows were dim and expressionless, save for one room, its interior lit by the use of fading candlelight.

The room that lay inside was starkly decorated with only the candlelight's glow throwing shadows upon the walls, but it was by no means uncomfortable; two beds lay hunched together in the middle of the room, a young boy in one and a somewhat older girl in the other. Sandwiched in between the two beds was a woman, her dark, short hair blending in with the night-lit walls. Her eyes radiated comfort as her voice spoke, clearly and warmly through the small bedroom.

"Once upon a time, there was a little girl living in a small village down by the river." Her voice drew the two children into her grasp as they lay, listening to her almost religiously. "She had a loving mother and father, and a little brother. Every day, they would work and play together by the light of the sun and moon, and they were happy.

"One day, however, the little girl became sick. She began to cough every day and couldn't play with her family like she'd used to. Her parents were very worried, and they called the doctor in to see her. The doctor checked her, and after a few minutes he asked to speak with her parents alone.

"He told her parents that she was very ill. He told them that there was little hope of her surviving more than a week and he advised them to get ready. Her parents were extremely saddened at this, but there was nothing they could do and they did as they were told, beginning to make preparations for the funeral.

"Unbeknownst to them, the little girl had been listening behind the door the whole time. She had heard what they had said, and she suddenly felt sad- she didn't want to die, not in this beautiful world, with everything around her- her mother, her father, her little brother, and everything _good _in the world. She didn't want to die, and she softly cried at the foot of her bed and prayed to the angels in the sky that she could get better and live."

The boy and girl listened intently, their eyes as wide as the moon that hovered above them. Smiling lightly, the woman gently continued with her tale. "That night, when she went to sleep, she saw a fairy at her window; its wings glittered with stars and she opened the window to let her in. The fairy told her that if she could fold a thousand paper cranes, then she would be cured from her illness and be able to live.

"The next morning, she woke up and begged her parents for a large stack of paper. In their grief, they interpreted it as their daughter's last wish, and they did as she asked. She did not cry anymore, but instead sat silently in her bed as she folded the cranes; one by one, her fingers gently threading through the moonlight as she worked, the beautiful birds looking as though they were alive.

"On the seventh night, the night when she was destined to die, she worked even harder than she had done on the cranes, the large mountain of birds piling up like snowflakes. Feverishly, she worked harder, even as she felt her illness overwhelming her. She thought of everything; her family, the sweet sunshine, the flowers, everything that she loved, and she only worked harder.

"Just as the clock struck midnight, she finished the thousandth crane, its wings resting on the surface of her palm. As she blinked her eyes through the window, she could see the fairy hovering above her, smiling at her. With a smile on her face, the little girl closed her eyes and went to sleep."

She finished the story, the children's mouths open as her own closed. Both stared expectantly at her as she sat there, waiting for her to continue. Finally, the girl asked tentatively, "What…what happened to the little girl? Did she live?"

The woman answered her daughter's question with a simple smile as she stood up. "Sleep tight, Lauranthalas." she said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. "And you too, Rysdale." she murmured, kissing the boy as well. There was a sweet silence in the room as she left, the children slowly drifting to sleep.

Over a decade and a half later, the very same boy, much older and wiser, would sit and wonder why he, of all sorts, had been drawn into that fairy tale; how he, Rysdale Tales, could have been so foolish to pursue that one single childish dream of his that was bound to fail.

But after all, there had once been a time when _he _had believed that, too.

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The snow swirls ferociously around him, the taste of blood and ice numbing his mouth. He cannot think straight or even run a coherent word from his mouth- he only knows that they are dead, and she is as well, and all he wants to do is run away like the foolish, scared child he is, run away and hope that somebody can make it all better.

He hears noises- roars and shouts from the mouth of the cave- and he knows that both are still alive, although they won't be for long. One will stand in the end, and one shall fall.

He hopes it is the one that roars "Fire Arrow!" over the wind that triumphs.

Eventually, he cannot tell whether it has been minutes, hours, or centuries since he heard that first bloodthirsty roar, but from the almost eerie silence that plays in his ears, he knows that one of them has fallen. With his heart, he prays that _she _is safe- that he will not have to sit here and watch another die, able to do nothing.

In the midst of the blizzard, however, he can suddenly feel heat- a strange, almost alien feeling, that wraps around his body and trickles in heavy drops down his body. He welcomes the heat, and opens his eyes, and he suddenly realizes that the heat is from her blood, slowly sheeting down a jagged wound on her shoulder and pooling in a crimson puddle at his feet.

Like the vicious battle beforehand, he cannot feel the lapse of time as the seconds and minutes slowly trickle by; but he only hears her words, bringing solace to him amidst the red snow, and he only feels her arms, the heat of her body sparing him from frozen death in Hell's garden. He wishes he can speak, tell her truly how much he loves and cares for her, but his words never leave his throat.

It has been years since then, but he has now lost the chance to tell her his true feelings.

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The moon shines when he walks outside, its cool glow calming him as he steps outside, his crossbow slung over his back. He glances at the calm night that surrounds him, almost seems to suffuse him, and he smiles, almost forgetting the pain that seeps from wounds inflicted years ago.

His nine year-old feet echo unsteadily along the pebbles that make up the beaten path leading to Henesys, the noise of his footsteps resonating in his ears. He rushes along the path, his pace quickening with every step.

She is gone, as she has been for the past three years. Every month or so, when the full moon is shining, she quietly tells him that there is something she must do, and leaves. She always tells him not to worry, that she'll be back in the morning- but this time, he can't help but worry. He knows something is wrong with her- she has been frail and somewhat sick ever since the _incident _three years ago- but he doesn't know what, and he is determined to find out at all costs, because he cares for her.

He follows the trail she has left behind, all the way from their kitchen door to the hunting grounds, her footprints his guide as he runs along the moonlit ground.

He suddenly notices, somewhere along the path, that her footprints have suddenly become paw prints- as though a tiger has been stalking the road. He is slightly unnerved by this, but his brotherly love for her overcomes all and he plunges ahead.

Then, all of a sudden, he hears a vicious roaring noise from the side, and he barely has time to scream before something barrels into him, a gigantic mass of soft fur, sharp claws and teeth, and vicious luminescent eyes.

He is suddenly on his back, blood streaking his body, and looks up to see a gigantic, vicious wolf, its fur white as snow and streaked with stripes of amber and silver, leering above him. Its claws are wet with his blood as it snarls ferociously, its claw raised and fangs bared in preparation for another strike.

As the werewolf's head lunges forward, he can only close his eyes and pray that his death will be swift.

But death's cold embrace does not come; he feels the beast's hot, foul breath on his face and finds the courage to open his eyes; he sees that the lycan's great fangs have stopped just inches away from his neck. As he wonders in fright why, he stares into those cutting, glowing eyes, and unbelievably, he sees a gentle shade of amber gold, the same shade he has lived with his whole life.

It is a precious segment of time before he finally realizes the finality of what has happened; his sister has become the wolf that has killed his parents, and it is with regret that she realizes she has been hiding this from him these past three years, and how he had never realized it.

He feels sharp claws dig into his back, but realizes that his sister has caught him in an embrace- the same one from three years ago- and holds him the same way she used to, as her great furry arms wrap around his body and her fangs rest inches away from his neck. He sinks into the wolf's embrace as her soft growls echo in his ears. If he closes his eyes and concentrates hard, he can almost make out her voice among the harsh guttural tones that make up the noises coming from her mouth.

Years seem to pass by before her claws recede from his back and the fur disappears from her body, leaving her weak and prone upon the ground, breathing shallowly. Her weakness surprises and scares him- she is his older sister, and older siblings can't afford to act weak in front of their younger kin- and as she lies painfully upon the ground, staring up into his eyes, he takes her hand, coated with his blood, into his own, and promises that he will do anything- _anything- _to help her recover from the cruel curse that she must endure.

-----

He folds the first crane silently, his amber hair fluttering in the wind as the scars upon his cheeks and back slowly heal. His fingers, calloused from pulling a crossbow trigger, fail miserably at manipulating the delicate paper into birds, the shreds of fibers tearing hopelessly as he folds every which way.

She comes in, her figure illuminated against the soft sunset as she walks in the room. She looks silently upon him as he attempts over and over again the art of folding these delicate birds from sheets of paper; once or twice he glances at her face, but he simply cannot tell from the strange look that graces her features whether she is happy, sad, or a combination of the both.

Finally, after a drawn silence, she walks over to him, her footsteps echoing in his ears. "You're doing it wrong, Rysdale. You have to fold it delicately, gently, and make it _alive. _Let your fingers take the paper and bring it to life as you create its beautiful body."

Her hands take ahold of his and guide him through the intricate folds and curves, gently molding the paper into a regal bird. As he stares at her hands, her fingernails suddenly appear long and sharp, but no matter how hard he shakes his head, the claws of the wolf still gleam in his mind.

She finally completes the animal's body with a last crimp of her fingers and smiles at him. "There, see, Rysdale? That's how you do it correctly."

He is left to marvel at how her claws, so much rougher than his hands, manage to expertly fold the crane without so much as tearing or scratching the paper- although he eventually folds hundreds upon hundreds of the graceful birds, in his mind, there will never be another one quite as beautiful and as alive as the very first one that she has made.

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His sister eventually grows worried at his reclusiveness, despite the fact that he prefers to be by himself, given what he's been through, and she talks to Athena Pierce, who arranges a play date between him and her niece. He expects little from the girl, but the first day he meets her, he is stunned at her appearance.

She is eight years old, just a year younger than him. Her orange-brown hair, streaked with a touch of blonde, dangles upon her shoulders like golden flames as she walks and talks. He is only nine and can't feel the beautiful, yet vicious emotion that is described as love- but he does feel a certain pang, something he can't quite place in his mind, every time his eyes gaze in her direction.

Her personality is what seems to overwhelm him; she is bright, talkative, and happy at all times, and during the rare occasions when she is grumpy or sad, she seems to snap out of it as though nothing had happened. The only exception is when he asks if she has any siblings; she falls silent for an unusually long period of time before responding in the negative.

They go together out upon the hunting grounds, she with her bow and he with his crossbow. Together, they bring death upon a multitude of wandering snails, slimes, and mushrooms, but as time wears on, he begins to bore of the adventure; he longs for some quiet peace where he can fold his cranes in silence. She notices, and he summarily invites her over to his house- actually, she ended up inviting herself, but this detail has somehow been altered in his memories.

They sit at the table, where she watches interestedly as he folds his birds of white, one after the other, their wings gently fluttering in the light breeze almost as though they are real. She watches with growing interest, finally asking him why he is doing this- why he is endlessly folding these creatures of paper, one after the other, with seemingly no end in sight.

As he looks into her eyes, he realizes that for the first time in his life, he actually feels comfortable- comfortable talking about the incident, his sister, and everything, and he feels that her presence helps ease the pain that he must endure when recalling those memories.

By the end of the day, the rate at which the cranes are folded has doubled.

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When he first hears the news that a killer had massacred the rather well-known Igzarion family that lived in Henesys, he is as shocked as anyone else, but _that_ was nothing compared to the jolt he receives when he sees Natalia leading the last surviving member of the family by the hand.

Although he is no mage, he can feel a dark, almost evil aura radiating from Traphes (for that was the boy's name- why anyone would name their son Traphes, he would never know) as they shot arrows over the hunting grounds together. He sees that Traphes, or Iggy, rather, as Natalia calls him, talks little and does little except for muttering incomprehensible words under his breath. Every once in a while, he reaches into his pocket and takes out a flask of something foul-smelling, which he drinks from once on the hour.

He is glad when the sun sets and he can finally have some time to himself, but as the door to his room opens, he is horrified to see Natalia and Iggy enter the door, the latter with malice in his eyes.

"What…the…hell." Iggy mutters as he glances around the room. "Why are you folding all of these damn birds for? What good is that to you?"

"Iggy, _stop!" _Natalia utters softly, her hand clenched in his.

Amazingly, at her words, he steps back obediently, although there is still a dim hatred in his eyes. For the love of him, Rysdale simply can't figure out what's wrong with Iggy- why he wants _so badly _to hurt others, why he simply can't accept society. Can having your entire family killed around you truly traumatize one that deeply?

Rysdale should know the answer to that question, but he doesn't, his hands merely folding the cranes as though nothing has happened. He hears the noise of rustling paper as Natalia sits down to help him; Iggy still does and says nothing, although his eyes glance contemptuously around the room.

After some time, however, he hears the sound of a chair being drawn as Iggy slowly sits down and stonily folds a piece of paper in his hands. When the bird is finished, he gives it a dark look before dropping it onto the table and edging out the door.

Natalia, as usual, cheerfully laughs the scene off and merely states that Iggy needs to take more medicine, but Rysdale can't help feeling as though the boy looked…almost wistful, maybe regretful, as his fingers had ran across the paper.

He gazes at the crane that Iggy left behind, its slightly crumpled wings contrasting sharply against the flock of neatly folded birds that he and Natalia have already created.

-----

The time flies by until Rysdale cannot distinguish days from months- how long has it been since the _incident, _a year? Two years?

A glance at the slightly dilapidated calendar hanging on the wall next to him tells him it has been seven.

He sighs as he pores over pages upon pages covered with arcane artes, their texts and intricacies crammed in miniscule writing upon the parchment as he gazes down at it, enough to make his head ache after reading one paragraph. Arcane reactions one chapter, mana displacement the next, soul theory after that…

He wonders why he has been spending his life stuck in this drafty Ellinian library scrutinizing volume after volume of arcane artes, magic theory, and countless other things that he probably should not have concerned himself with- he should be outside in Henesys practicing his crossbow techniques along with the rest of the eager sniper wannabes.

But as he looks up and gazes into _their _faces, he suddenly answers his own question. He is here because of them; Natalia, Iggy, and Arklanser; the three people, out of everyone on the gigantic world of Bera, that cared about him. Well, Natalia at least; the other two show so little emotion that it's virtually impossible to read just what exactly is on their mind.

He hears Natalia return from a nearby bookshelf, slamming down yet another mountain of dictionaries and encyclopedias for them to peruse. Her voice barely diffuses through his mind as she distributes the tomes; "-all right, Iggy, you can have the demonology encyclopedia, and Delinia, you can have this series of books on mana reactions, and Rysdale-" His gaze jerks upwards for a second as he hears her say his name. "-for you, I got this huge all-purpose encyclopedia of magical theory. Aren't you going to read it?"

For her, he complies, taking the gigantic book from her hands and flipping through its dusty pages. The pages seem to jab at him as he glances down at them from under his spectacles, their words reaching out to him, calling him, mocking him. He tries to resist the book's soporific effect, but it is of little use- somehow, the pages remind him that he- that _they- _are fighting a battle that they cannot possibly win.

On an impulse, he flips past the 'D' section in a fit of light fury and lets the pages fall to a random point; a rather lurid picture decorates the right corner of the chosen page that drifts in front of him.

As his eyes steadily take in the image of the great lycanthrope that adorns the page, he closes them and thinks of cranes.

-----

The birds pile up within his room within Gault's mansion until they have become a snowfall of white; some stick out, like an occasional red, blue, yellow, or green creature made when there was no other color of paper about, but they are mostly white, and as he stares at them, he is reminded of the snow, of that day, and he is reminded of her. Although one would have easily lost count by now, he has kept careful track- seven hundred and forty-eight so far- of every single one he has made.

He shakes his head and continues to fold the papers in front of him, acting more like a machine than a human. The dim light from the moon and the lamp in front of him illuminate his eyes- tired, yet purposeful and determined, and his fingers, although calloused and crisscrossed with a series of inevitable paper cuts, do not falter as they continue to shape the sheets of paper into beautiful life.

He hears the door creak slightly as it opens, and he doesn't have to look up to know that Natalia is speaking- he can tell by the gentle flutter of her light clothes and the warm tone of her voice. "Are you okay, Rysdale? You've spent quite a few hours in there…"

"I'm fine." he mutters thickly, although he isn't, and she can clearly see the frustration and determination in his voice to finish this task, so simple and childish, yet so _important. _His eyes, hidden behind the mask that his emotionless spectacles have become, show nothing, yet they hide everything. She gazes sadly at him; she knows what he is feeling more than anyone else, and she wants to help him as much as she does Iggy.

"Do you need help?" she asks, although the answer is already known by common consent. With a mute nod from the sniper, she draws up a spare chair and pulls herself closer to him, taking a sheet of paper from the stack that crowns his desk. Her hands, nearly as nimble as his from years of practice, fold the bird with little effort before she slides it into a neat line with the rest of the fragile creatures. "How many have you done?"

"Seven hundred and fifty." He closes his eyes slightly and slides another freshly-completed bird into the line. "And now, seven hundred and fifty-one."

Natalia sighs as she continues to fold the cranes in relative silence, the only sounds that can be heard being the folding of paper and the scraping of chairs against the floor. She knows that, in the end, what they are doing is ultimately futile, and she knows that he knows that, but they both steadfastly refuse to give up; he works with such zeal upon this one task that she can't bring herself to state the obvious.

In retrospect, she enjoys spending time with him like this- as silent and as unconversational as it is, she has a chance now to see what he's _really _like, behind that mask of cool indifference that he usually wears outside this room, the mask that hides his true thoughts, feelings, and pain from the world.

The latter thinks nothing of this as he folds in silence, the noise of rustling paper permeating the dry air. His thoughts are only for Laura as he continues to grimly shape the cranes, casting a dark look outside the bleak window. It is a full moon, and he can almost hear the howling in the distance as he stares into the dark expanse of sky.

Natalia feels something brush against her wrist as she looks up in surprise to see Rysdale staring outside the window, a finished crane cradled in the fingers of his right hand. However, as she quickly discovers soon enough, his left hand has somehow or other inched across the desk and seized ahold of her arm; there is something cold, yet warm about his touch at the same time- as though he is repugnant to admit he enjoys her presence, but at the same time, he can't let go.

"Rysdale." Her voice seems to shake him out of his reverie. "Could you please let go of my arm? I can't fold with you grabbing it."

His head whips around and blinks at her, and he does as he is told. "Sorry." he mutters, his hands now at work once more. "It was just- you know…" His voice trails off as he continues to fold.

Natalia sighs, his uncertain voice echoing in her ears. "Don't do that again." she murmurs. "You startled me a little…"

A faint smile seems to cross his face. "Don't worry." he whispers, almost teasingly. "I won't."

He's lying, but he's found it easier to keep certain truths from her.

-----

The sunlight streams through the windows as they eat together. Rysdale casts a slightly disdainful look at the table around him; Gault, as ominously amicable as ever, Gardner, nodding much and saying little, Arklanser and Iggy, eating in relative silence, Natalia, trying to pep the atmosphere up as much as Gault, and Phoenix, casually eating as though nothing is happening.

He wants to retreat to his room and sit there in silence, but he can't- Gault is being stricter on the training, and for once, he'll actually have to dust off the Gross Jaeger and let fly a few bolts in the fresh air. There's so much he wishes he can do instead- reading about demonology or lycanthropy, spending some time with Natalia, even folding cranes- at this point, he's got about nine hundred, but the exact figure becomes a blur in his mind as he stares out across the hazy atmosphere.

He takes a bite of his toast and eggs, barely recognizing the taste, as he stares out across the dinner hall. He's troubled, but more so than usual, as he gazes up at the ceiling, almost praying for something to happen; he's tired of sitting around and following Gault's orders all day.

The fork slips from his hand and falls downwards, leaving a light gash on his arm. He winces in pain as the tines of the utensil rake across the flesh, but physical pain quickly gives way to a memory of claws, snow, and blood, and he shakes his head and wishes fervently that the memories could go away; he wishes fervently that somehow, some way, he could conceivably find a cure to save her; to reverse her condition and bring her from the tortured beast she was to the kind and loving sister she had been.

He caught sight of Natalia, who looked slightly worried at his expression; however, as he opened his mouth to talk to her, the words failed and died in his throat, and she eventually lost interest and turned to Phoenix.

The rest of the repast passes in a blur to Rysdale, and he gets up from his seat rather abruptly with the rest, preparing to head outside and feel the long-lost sensation of sending bolts of light and ice flying through the air. However, as he walked through the hall, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

It was Phoenix, smiling rather happily, like a young child who has just finished building a sand castle. Rysdale raised an eyebrow at Phoenix's expression before the ranger dropped a load of something in his arms.

He blinked and stared down; in his arms were several slightly wrinkled and greasy paper cranes, obviously having been folded moments ago from the napkins at the breakfast table. Phoenix winked before saying, "Arundale said this had something to do with your sick sister…I don't know what's wrong with her, but I hope she gets better."

The ranger vanished through the door, leaving a slightly nonplussed Rysdale behind. His expression of surprise slowly faded to a sedate smile as he glanced down at the delicate creations in his arms, appreciating the ties of friendship even more.

-----

The sky is completely clear and beautiful as the golden sun shines down upon Henesys. The weather is as clear as a jewel- not even a wisp of a cloud appeared in the cerulean sky to disrupt the radiant light that shines down from the heavens. The climate of the area is pleasantly warm, and a gentle zephyr is streaming through the streets of the archer city; it is _the _perfect day to be alive.

Unfortunately, Rysdale Tales could have cared little about this, as he realized the person he was staring down at couldn't be enjoying the weather with him.

He sighs wistfully, wiping a tear from his face as he sniffles. The noise sounds foreign to him; he realizes he hasn't cried in over a decade. His face, hidden behind the mask of his spectacles and his cold indifference for so long, was finally itself again, gentle tears running from the pearls of his eyes and coming to rest on the ground.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, but he knows that no words can express the remorse, the regret he is feeling. He wishes he could die for her- he would have gladly died for her in the forest, but fate had a cruel way of trapping those in its web. He has failed- he couldn't protect her, as she had protected him, and he has broken his promise to her to save her from her curse.

He gazes at the emotionless gravestone; he can't bear the thought that all that remains of his beloved sister is this damned rock, sticking up from the ground where a living human should be. He takes a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jacket and reads the inscription, matching the tombstone, written on it.

"_Lauranthalas Tales, daughter of Jade and Ariande Tales, in pace requiescat, AB Sept. 4, 1977 - May 27, 2005..."_

He knows it is only a story, but the tears just won't stop as he folds the thousandth crane and lays it on his beloved sister's grave.

_fin._

* * *

_Edit, 4/23/07: Yes, the story of the thousand cranes is based on a true story. As most of you know, it has something to do with a girl and the atom bombs dropped on Japan at the end of WWII. I'll pontificate it fully for those of you who still don't know what this is about._

_Sadako Sasaki was born in 1943 in Japan. She was two years old when the atom bomb exploded over Hiroshima in August 6, 1945. Exposed to radiation from the blast, she collapsed while training for a race and was diagnosed with leukemia when she was eleven. A friend told her about the cranes story and she worked tirelessly to complete this task in hopes that the gods could grant her wish to get well so that she could run again. She completed over a thousand of the birds before dying on October 25, 1955 at the age of twelve._

_As you can see, I took the concept and modified it a little to suit the story. Let me know what you think._

_-Kal_


End file.
